Every Word You Spoke
by lovablegeek
Summary: [PreRENT] Roger backs out of helping Maureen with a performance. RogerMaureen. [One shot]


**Disclaimer: **I'm pretty darn sure I'm _still_ not Jonathan Larson. (Jonathan Larson is just my God. Along with Collins…) So. Not mine.  
**A/N: **It's Alex's fault. (Why is that my main reason for writing things lately?) But she asked me for Roger/Maureen, and since I really _can't_ argue with her… Here we are. Even though I have _such_ trouble writing Maureen… Dramatic sigh Anyway. Yes, I blame this on Lexa. Very much preRENT, before even Roger and April. And I would like to say that this is a pairing absolutely doomed to failure because of who they _are_, but it is kind of fun to write. (Never mind that Roger's being an ass. My Roger does that far too often.)

* * *

Maureen rushed into the loft, boot heels clicking on the uncarpeted floor, and without really looking for him called, "Roger, I need you to—" She stopped when she saw Roger stick his head out of his room. "Why aren't you ready?"

He gave her one of those looks that very much implied he had no idea what she was talking about and stepped out of the bedroom with a sigh. "Ready for _what_?"

With a frustrated sigh, she gestured dramatically to the window through which the lot next door was visible. "My performance? Remember? You promised you'd help, and I just want to practice beforehand to see if we need—"

Roger shook his head. "I can't. I got a gig at a club tonight, and I won't be able to make it to your performance, so you're just going to have to find someone else who can help." Noticing the beginnings of a pout, he grimaced and avoided looking directly at her as he sprawled out across the couch. "I have to leave soon to get ready, Maureen. I really don't have time for theatrics."

"But… Pookie…" Her voice shifted a little higher, persuasive, as she took a few steps nearer to the couch and pouted at him. He snapped automatically, "Don't call me that." That didn't seem to dissuade Maureen at all.

"You _promised_," Maureen pointed out, sliding onto the couch beside him, practically in his lap. "Please, Roger? I can't do it without you…"

He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling as if seeking some kind of strength there. "I know I promised, but I can't just cancel. Do you know what I had to do to _get_ this gig?"

Maureen pulled away from him a little, her eyes flashing dangerously. Roger should have seen he was in trouble right there, but somehow he missed the warning. "Oh, and you expect _me_ to cancel _my_ performance? When I've been planning it for months, all because _you_ changed your mind at the last minute?" The soft, pleading quality of her voice had faded, replaced by righteous indignation.

Roger stood up, nearly dumping Maureen onto the floor what with her all but sitting in his lap. "I'm sorry to ruin your plans, Maureen," he said, a touch of acidic sarcasm entering his tone, "but I'm not backing out of this. You know, people, actually want to _see_ me perform, whereas you…" He stopped, and didn't speak again until Maureen got off the couch and stalked towards him, glared up into his face.

"Whereas I… what?" Her voice had dropped low and soft—too soft. Roger smirked. His drama queen was in a mood, it seemed. He let out a wry, derisive chuckle.

"Let's face it, Maureen—my career's actually going somewhere, and you… Well, how many people showed up at your last performance?"

For several long moments she was silent, looking down at the floor. Then, softly, but with all the venom she could managed, "Fuck you, Roger." She whirled on her heel and started for the door, her head bowed.

"Maureen," he snapped in exasperation. She didn't even turn around, and Roger began to follow her to the door. "Maureen! I'm sorry to be the one to point this out, Your Highness, but the world doesn't revolve around you! Just because you had to cancel one stupid performance—"

The door slammed behind her.

Roger stopped at the door, but didn't follow her out. Instead, he turned to head back to his room—and caught sight of Mark watching him from the kitchen, silent reproach in his expression. Damn it, how long had he been there? "Shut up," Roger growled before Mark could get out a word, and stalked to his room to grab his guitar. "I don't want to hear it."


End file.
